Dancing man wearing a horse mask cooks wild mushrooms.

Stranded in Motion

That I am in motion, metaphorically-speaking, after a looong period of dormant torment is obvious, but - what direction am I moving in?

I can't remember a time when I've experienced my mind being so cloudy, so unable to plan and decide.  As old patterns start to make themselves known, loosen up, and unravel, I've yet to see new - hopefully healthier - patterns being born.  I feel like a line I am freely paraphrasing written by Edna St. V Millay (my favorite poet):  "...without myself, I spend/long days that have no meaning/and no end..."

I've never been afraid before.  Not really - I've been able, so far, to handle anything Life!'s thrown at me, so I don't see why I feel vulnerable now.  In giving up these patterns, I've, also, given up the security, no matter how false it was, they lent me.  The seductive Devil I know...

I'm sure if I had done all of this during my adolescence like normal people do, I wouldn't be in the place I am right now...

Comeuppance

I've been running around without oxygen and telling myself I am, once again, invincible.  This is why it puzzled me when I found myself laying on the floor of the Hobby Lobby with people hovering over me this morning...

"Are you all right?" asked a worried clerk.

"Am I all right?"  I said.  I, still, wasn't sure what had happened.

I'd passed out while choosing some yarn and another pair of knitting needles.  Personally, I think my psyche couldn't accept that I've become an enthusiastic knitter, and shut me down so it would have time to try to think of some way to divert me from pursuing such a prosaic craft, but...

...I kinda suspect it was because I was going into Day Two of having used no oxygen at all.

Sigh...

I was fine.  Not even embarrassed (I've had practice - its happened before), and I didn't hurt myself when I went down, or destroy any displays, so...no harm, no foul.  Just an indication that I am, indeed, mortal, and need to, perhaps, move a little slower in my quest to 'get better'.  Also, I'd been rushing to beat hell, and hadn't eaten anything so my sugar was low, low, low.  I have to talk to myself about needing to be a bit more considerate with myself.

Yeah.

Smaller leaps of faith, I suppose.

Gratitude

Today, someone asked me what I have to be grateful for considering the circumstances I'm in.  Truthfully, I'm grateful for a lot of things, and I'm not in the worst place I've ever found myself...

I have a roof.  I have food to eat even though I'm not happy about not being able to eat the foods I like.  I'm regaining my health in bits and pieces.  I'm strong enough to take care of Jelly.  I'm glad that, though gone, my little dog is no longer blind and in pain, and that is a hard thing to be grateful for. 

I'm grateful my ex didn't beat me to death.

I'm grateful my own stupidities haven't killed me yet.

I'm grateful for the people who put up with the massive amount of bullshit I put them through.

A lot of things.  Too many to list.

As for the answer I gave the person who asked me, it was simple.  I said...

"This..." and I took a deep breath.  "And I can be reasonably sure of being able to draw the next one."

(Look Ma!  NO OXYGEN!!!!!)

On a Lighter Note...

There was a period following the death of my beloved BuHsi where I wore all these HUGE sunglasses (the pair shown were, I believe, a 75 cent Salvation Army special) because I cried all the time, and I didn't give a rats' ass about how I looked, so my hair suffered greatly.  (Yes, it actually suffered - it cried itself to sleep at nights and tried to commit suicide on several occasions).  Michael, thinking that it would be nice to remind me of the progress I'm making, sent me this with this note:  "You look better now.  Doesn't that make you happy?"

Yes.  Well...

I like that it looks like I have a mustache and have just bitten into a deep-fried turd...

The self-dyed hair is interesting, too...

To be honest, it DOES make me feel better.  Remembering how bad it was makes today seem less...lethal somehow...

Baby steps?  Not yet, I'm still crawling, but...I'm trying, I'm trying...

The Halfnoise of Spiders

Every day, there is at least one moment when I ask myself if this is going to be THE day, the day that I fall over the edge I've been walking on.  I can feel it coming...  I might be wrong.  I hope I'm wrong.  But...I feel it waiting for me.  A Howl like none other.  The mother of Howls.  The Howl at the end of the world.

It scares me.  I'm serious.  Everyone has a tipping point, and most people, fortunately, come nowhere near it, but we've all seen, or heard about, those who were pushed over the edge.  I'd estimate that, at the very least, 40% of the chronically homeless are people who tipped.  They no longer live in the same world the rest of us do, and they never will again, and their lives are spent deep inside their own individual, never-ending Howl.

So, yeah, it scares me.  I'm afraid of being pushed over that edge, beyond all redemption, past all methods of retrieval, into an all-encompassing Howl of Howls.  I'm afraid of losing this world - and myself - and not being able to get back again, maybe not being able to realize that I've left at all.

I have an inner spider.  He's so very patient; he spins and he spins...  I'm afraid that, one day, the webbing that encases me will be complete, and that's where I'll be forever.  Apart from the world, apart from my Self, frozen in limbo, and nothing to wait for but the end of it all at last.

This isn't an intelligent view.  Not a mature view, either.  It's not even particularly articulate or original, but...  it's what I'm afraid of, and fear doesn't give a tin shit about intelligence or reason, does it?

I can hear him spinning. you know...

Inhuman

For the past few weeks, Jelly has developed a worsening habit of reaching out and grabbing my hand as I go by.  I know what it is - he needs human contact, reassurance, comfort of some sort that only touch can give him.  He needs someone to sit with him, hold his hand, tell him that he's not alone...

...and I can't do it.  I just can't.  In fact, it creeps me out.

I must be fucking inhuman.

I want to - I really do - I'd love to be able to sit with him and comfort him, to help him through this more than I do.  He's a good man, and I love him more than I loved anyone in my own family with the exception of my father.  Why I can't give him that simple comfort is a mystery - I just know its beyond me, and I don't know why.

It's funny - we can talk about his dying, and we do.  I don't shy away from that, and I don't hold back when he asks me how I feel about certain things, or what my opinion is.  I can talk without flinching about how it's going to be from what I know from past experience, and I can reassure him that I'll take care of him to the best of my ability, and that he won't have to go into a hospital or a hospice - that he can stay where he's most comfortable, and I will be there until the end.

And I will.  I can do that.

What I can't do, what even drives me away, is the idea of sitting quietly with a dying man and holding his hand so that he has some contact with another human being - something that most of us need at the best of times, much less at the worst.  I can't do it, and I hate myself for it.

So - he's driven to clutching at me and hanging onto me whenever I get near enough for him to do so, and I know it makes him feel abandoned, literally abandoned, for me to tolerate it for a second of so before pulling away and making busy work for myself...and you always know when someone is just tolerating your touch.  We humans are very keen to sense that.

And, so, I'm letting him down and hurting him when he needs me...and I can't seem to do a thing about it.

Not real proud of myself lately.